Authors: Graham Masterton
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Five hundred milligrams of potassium chloride stopped his heart almost instantaneously. Better than months of torture, don’t you agree, with those clammy young men sucking the very soul out of you?’
‘Then you know all about them? You know who they are?’
Dr Moorpath said nothing.
‘They assassinated John O’Brien, didn’t they?’ said Michael. ‘I saw the photographs.’
Still Dr Moorpath said nothing.
‘Tell me that they assassinated John O’Brien,’ Michael insisted. ‘Dr Rice hypnotized Frank Coward, and Frank Coward brought the helicopter down on Sagamore Point. That’s what happened, isn’t it? And that’s why they wanted to kill Dr Rice, so that he wouldn’t tell anybody how it was done.’
‘Since you know so much about it, why ask me?’ said Dr Moorpath. ‘Why not go directly to Edgar Bedford, or to Commissioner Hudson? Why not go directly to the district attorney’s office, or His Honour the mayor? Talk to the
Globe,
talk to the
Phoenix,
talk to the
Herald.
Talk to the TV stations.’
Michael waited for Dr Moorpath to say something more, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained balanced on that five and a half inches of sandstone, with his arms spread out, like a heavy black rook.
But what Dr Moorpath had already implied had been quite frightening enough. With a feeling of terrible coldness, Michael realized that there would be absolutely no future in talking to Edgar Bedford about ‘Mr Hillary’ and the white-faced men – nor to the commissioner of police, nor to the district attorney, nor to the mayor or the media.
In fact, if he tried to pursue the John O’Brien assassination any further, he would probably be putting himself in what Plymouth Insurance usually described as ‘a calculated and premeditated position of extreme jeopardy’. In other words, his chances of survival would be so small that nobody would agree to insure him.
What Dr Moorpath was telling him was that Joe Garboden had been right in his suspicions, and that those white-faced men had influence that could only be guessed at. They whispered into all the ears that mattered, gave rewards to those of whom they approved, and took terrifying steps to remove those who happened to displease them.
‘Raymond,’ Michael appealed, ‘you have to tell me who they are.’
Dr Moorpath gave him a minimal shake of his head. ‘No, I don’t, Michael. And believe me, you’d be better off not knowing.’
‘Aren’t you going to come down?’
‘What for?’
‘Nobody’s going to harm you, Raymond. And if it’s true what you’re saying about the district attorney’s office, they’re not even going to prosecute you, are they?’
‘I didn’t do what I was told,’ said Dr Moorpath. ‘I interfered.’
‘So? What can they do?’
‘What did they do to Elaine Parker? What did they do to Sissy O’Brien? What did they do your friend Joe Garboden? Believe me, Michael, they want me now, and it’s better this way, by far.’
He edged a half-inch closer to the brink of the stone crest. He lifted his face toward the sky. ‘They showed me something I didn’t believe possible,’ he said. ‘They showed me the power of the human aura in all its glory.’
‘You mean hypnosis, is that what you’re talking about, hypnosis?’
‘Hypnosis is just the beginning. Hypnosis is just the way in, like the hole in the skirting-board through which the mice wriggle in, to discover the wonderful riches of the larder. The human aura is magical, infinite, astounding – and those who learn to use it can command the very substance of life itself.’
Dr Moorpath was almost hysterical now. Michael cautiously reached out his hand and said, ‘Come on, Raymond – come down from there. I want to know more. I want you to tell me more. But I can’t do it while you’re teetering right on the edge there, honestly.’
Dr Moorpath turned around and stared at Michael over his right shoulder. His face was hair-raising. His eyes were staring and his jaw muscles were clenched so tightly that he looked as he might explode from the inside.
‘Watch!’ he said.
And stepped off the crest.
And
walked.
He took long, trudging steps through thin air – up from the parapet, higher and higher, like a man trying to climb up a deep snowdrift.
Michael couldn’t move. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Yet there, ten feet away, now further, and higher, Dr Moorpath was steadily walking away from him – sixteen storeys above the ground.
Michael couldn’t call out, couldn’t even speak. He was terrified and thrilled, both at the same time.
Dr Moorpath didn’t look back, but hunched his shoulders more. It looked as if he were finding his climb harder and harder. He began to slow down, and once or twice he stumbled. He was nearly thirty feet away from the hospital now, and ten feet higher than the level of the roof. Michael saw a pale, pinkish flicker of light criss-crossing Dr Moorpath’s back. The same pinkish flicker that he had seen when Dr Rice had hypnotized him. His etheric body. His aura. And as Dr Moorpath struggled higher and higher, the flickering grew brighter, and more frequent, until his heavy black outline was surrounded by dancing, dazzling bursts of energy.
He lifted one leg, then hesitated; then lifted the other – then hesitated longer.
Thin wisps of smoke began to pour from the back of his jacket.
He raised his left hand, as if he were trying to claw himself up a steep slope. Blinding yellow light burst from his sleeve, and smoke began to run from his wrists like blood. He raised his right hand, and heaved himself a little higher, but it was clear that he couldn’t sustain this air-walking for very much longer.
There was a moment when he hung in mid-air, clinging desperately to nothing at all, with black smoke gushing out of his clothes. Then he started to scream and scream, and fire engulfed him from head to foot. There was a crackling noise like fireworks, a thick shower of sparks, and Dr Moorpath spun around and around, his mouth stretched impossibly wide, roaring with agony.
For a moment, Michael thought that he would never fall, that he would continue to spin around in mid-air, until he was all burned up. Fragments of burning clothing fell from Dr Moorpath’s shoulders, and blazing fat spat from his thrashing feet. But suddenly he dipped sideways, and dropped. Michael took three stiff steps to the edge of the parapet and watched him fall, tumbling over and over, arms, legs, flame, feet, until he hit the ground like a sackful of burning barbecue ash.
Michael was still standing by the parapet watching him burn when Victor appeared, followed by two security guards.
‘Jesus,’ said Victor, staring down at the crowds and the splattering of ashes. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘He set fire to himself,’ said Michael, dully. ‘He jumped. Same way those Japanese students killed themselves, you remember. It was on the news.’
Victor laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure I’m okay,’ said Michael; although he felt totally empty, totally flat, as if he were standing for the last time in a house that he was about to leave. No furniture, no rugs, no phone, and – surprisingly – no memories.
Victor glanced down at Dr Moorpath’s smoking body; then he glanced back at the parapet.
‘Where’d he jump from?’ Victor asked.
Michael nodded. ‘The top of that crest. He was already standing there when I got up here. I talked to him. I asked him to come down. But there was nothing I could do.’
Victor looked down at the body yet again. ‘He was standing on top of that crest, and he jumped all the way over there? Come on, Michael, that’s at least – ‘
Michael said, ‘Yes?’ and stared intently at Victor, and then mouthed ‘later’ – trying to show him that he didn’t want to discuss what had happened to Dr Moorpath in front of these two security guards.
‘Oh,’ said Victor, looking back down to the ground. ‘I see what you mean.’
Two doll-sized medics were hurriedly wheeling a trolley out to the place where Dr Moorpath had fallen. The guards said to Michael and Victor, ‘Come on, you two bozos. The police are going to want to talk to you.’
Victor said, ‘Listen, friend, you don’t call us “bozos”. You call us “doctor” and you call us “sir.” ‘
The guard let out a long sigh, as if he really didn’t give a shit. ‘Come on, then, doctor and sir. The cops are waiting to talk to you two bozos downstairs.’
Sixteen
Michael had just finished making photocopies of Joe Garboden’s assassination pictures when his office door opened without warning. He stuffed the last picture into its envelope and switched off the Xerox. To his surprise, it was Edgar Bedford, the grand old man of Plymouth Insurance. Edgar Bedford was stocky, bull-necked, with white crinkly hair. He had a large, handsome head, but his face was marred with crimson-and-white blotches that always reminded Michael of corned-beef hash. Too much sun, too many skin-peels, too many six-ounce martinis.
He was wearing a tuxedo and a black bow tie, and he smelled of Xeryus aftershave, a young man’s fragrance which jarred with his appearance. He put his head around the door, and looked this way and that, and then smiled the smile of a man who has no need whatsoever to be ingratiating to anybody.
‘Ah, Rearden,’ he said. His voice was thick and oddly indistinct, like a poorly recorded soundtrack. ‘You’ve been working late.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve just been winding up the O’Brien investigation, sir.’
‘Well ... sad business all around.’ Edgar Bedford walked into the centre of the room, and peered at some of the memos on the wall. ‘And I’m particularly sad to lose Joe.’
‘You heard about Dr Moorpath?’ asked Michael, trying not to sound provocative.
Edgar Bedford nodded. ‘I knew Raymond for twenty-five years. We used to play golf together. Very sad indeed.’
Michael shrugged and said, ‘He’d been under quite a bit of a strain, that’s what I heard.’ (Watching – in his mind’s eye – Raymond Moorpath spinning and burning in mid-air, and screaming in pain.)
Edgar Bedford turned and fixed him with a watery-eyed stare. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a while. ‘That’s what I heard, too. You’ll – er – finish up this O’Brien thing, won’t you, and have it on my desk as soon as you can?’
‘I was wondering if you wanted me to stay on,’ said Michael.
Edgar Bedford frowned at him, as if he didn’t understand what ‘stay on’ could possibly mean.
Michael took a breath, and then said, ‘Now this is finished – this O’Brien thing – maybe you can find me something else.’
‘Ah,’ said Edgar Bedford. ‘That was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Well, fine – I’m willing to take on another case. I think I’ve got my psychological difficulties pretty well licked.’
Edgar Bedford didn’t seem to be listening. He looked around until he found a typist’s chair, which he rolled across to the centre of the room. He sat down, and folded his arms, and looked up at Michael with an expression that Michael had never seen on anybody’s face before. Contemptuous, proprietorial – but anxious, too – as if he didn’t hold Michael in any respect whatsoever, but was worried that Michael might upset the carefully orchestrated balance of Bedford life.
‘I’m going to tell you something, Michael. My family have dominated Boston society for nearly a hundred years.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir.’
‘You know how we did that? You know how we acquired such influence?’
‘Well, sir, I’m pretty sure that you’re going to tell me.’
‘We acquired that influence by making the right friends. That’s how we did it. We made the right friends. We were good to the people who could help us and we were unforgiving with those people who tried to do us down.’
Michael nodded, as if he fully understood what this lecture was all about.
Edgar Bedford paused for a while, and then he said, ‘I’m no fool, Rearden, whatever you take me for. In your own way, you’re one of us, and that makes you charmed. But being charmed doesn’t mean that you’re invulnerable – and being charmed doesn’t mean that you can do what you like, and poke your nose into business that doesn’t concern you. So I’m telling you now – you wrap up this O’Brien report – accidental death – satisfy the underwriters – and maybe we’ll think of keeping you on.’
Michael stood in front of Edgar Bedford with Joe’s assassination photographs held behind his back.
‘All right, Mr Bedford,’ he said. And Edgar Bedford fixed him with watery, washed-out eyes, and Michael knew that the floor was opening up, right beneath his feet, but he refused to look, he refused to fall.
Whether Edgar Bedford had sensed Michael’s moment of apprehension or not, he stood up, and rolled away the typist’s chair, and tried to smile. ‘It’s the making of friends, Rearden, that’s what makes the world go round. I’ll look forward to reading your report. By the way, Joe’s funeral is Saturday, 11 a.m. at Wakefield Crematorium. It’s odd, that, I wouldn’t have taken him for a Wakefield man, would you? But I guess that I’ll see you then.’